A/N: Chapter 1 and 2 have been substantially rewritten, because some things just didn't feel right to me anymore.
Also, since I'm getting a little tired of reading angry reviews on the second chapter of this story, let me say a few things straight away to avoid future disappointments.
This is NOT a romantic love story about a Cousland overcoming Anora's stubbornness through his sheer awesomeness. It's a story with deeply flawed characters who do questionable things and are cold, calculating and at times ruthless. Heck, they aren't even particularly likeable. If that's not your thing, you're better off with a different story. I wrote this to explore some ideas I had. This doesn't mean that I approve of my characters' actions or opinions or would act like this myself.
Don't Close Your Eyes
It was late at night when they finally withdrew to their chambers. Anora kept patiently still while her attendants helped her undress and took care of her hair. The wedding had been a relatively subdued affair, with only a select handful of guests from the highest ranks of the nobility, but there had been the usual array of endless speeches and ceremonies.
Anora was glad it was over. She shot a quick, sideways glance at Percival on the other side of the room. He looked tired as well, but when he noticed her looking, he flashed her a smile. She smiled back. My new husband. Percival Cousland. Some part of her still found it hard to believe.
This was not how she had imagined her future, half a year ago. Things had looked so desperate then, with the land torn by Civil War, threatened by a Blight, no one she could trust, no one who would take her side. Until that night…
"So I take it you don't find Arl Eamon's plan all that appealing?" His voice rang out loud and clear, and Anora nearly jumped up from her desk where she had been seated, her face buried in her hands.
The other Warden. Young Cousland, Percival, that was his name. Anora didn't remember much about him from before the Blight. His brother Fergus had been one of Cailan's drinking companions and she had known him well. Percival had been just a kid back then, at least ten years younger than she was. Of course he was a grown man now, strong and broad-shouldered. Not unattractive, with his thick, dark hair and the rather rakish moustache he sported.
"No, I don't. But I'd hardly expect you to understand." Her voice was icy. They had spent the afternoon in her study with Arl Eamon outlining the details of his plan. She would be able to remain Queen, if she agreed to marry Alistair, Maric's bastard. The prospective groom had been there as well, a shy, goofy boy, who looked enough like his father and brother to make further proof of his parentage unnecessary. She shuddered.
"Try me." Percival shrugged. "You might be surprised. Though of course you're under no obligation to explain yourself to me or anyone else."
Anora closed her eyes. "Alistair... He looks like Cailan. He talks like Cailan, smiles like Cailan. But he isn't Cailan, and never will be."
She looked up to find Percival watching her, his face calm and unreadable. To her surprise, she suddenly found that she wanted to go on, to make him see. "Don't get me wrong, I didn't love Cailan, not after everything he did. I didn't hate him either. But..."
"But you still don't want to be reminded of him every time you look at your new husband." He finished for her, his tone carefully neutral.
No pity, no condescension. Anora was grateful. He was silent for a while, and when he spoke again, he enunciated each word carefully, slowly, as if feeling his way through what he wanted to say.
"There may be a different solution, you know. There's more than enough noble blood in Ferelden without having to resort to making a bastard king." He didn't elaborate, didn't say more than that, just left the room, giving her space to think. He didn't approach her again in the days to come.
Anora took her time to consider his words. Three days passed before she walked over to his quarters in the evening and knocked on his door. Percival opened immediately, and when he saw her, stepped aside, beckoning her to enter. With exquisite politeness, he escorted her over to the table and offered her a chair.
He was wearing house clothes of fine cut and quality, made from heavy green velvet, carefully embroidered. It was obvious he was used to taking care with his appearance, even in the privacy of his quarters. Vanity? Or just a lifelong habit of keeping up appearances? Anora realized she was thinking far more about his motivations than she'd intended to.
He had been busy cleaning and whetting his sword. A plain grey iron longsword, far less ornate than she would have expected of him. His eyes followed her gaze.
"The Cousland family sword," he remarked. "They say it's been in our family since the days of King Calenhad."
Anora raised an eyebrow at this reminder of his family's past. One of the oldest noble lines in the country, and one of the finest, even though they hadn't always been the most loyal. Of course, he was only the younger son. Fergus would inherit the Teyrnir, if there would be anything to inherit after the Blight, and Percival would be stuck with one of the lesser holdings. Not an appealing prospect for an ambitious young man.
She decided to be blunt. "If I marry again, if I marry you, things will have to change. I am tired of ruling in my husband's name while he goes off to play."
He nodded. "I wouldn't expect you to. But what if you had a strong king beside you?"
"A strong king?" She looked him over carefully. "No. A prince-consort. This gets you near the throne, but I am the Queen."
Percival shrugged. "All right. I don't care about the title. But I need to be in charge of the armies."
Anora nodded. "That won't be a problem. I don't think anyone would question your military prowess after what you've achieved in the past year. On the other hand, you don't know anything about the day-to-day business of governing."
"No, I don't." He looked at her intently. "But I'm willing to learn. And I am sure you can teach me all I need to know."
She threw him a sharp look, suspecting flattery, but he seemed completely matter-of-fact. "Then I guess we have an agreement."
He nodded slowly, but then surprised her by taking her hand. "Anora, if we're doing this, I'm not just doing it to get near the throne. If you marry me, I don't want you to be my wife in name only."
Anora didn't flinch. "That goes without saying. Ferelden needs an heir. And soon."
"Yes, but..." Percival hesitated. "I don't want you to just close your eyes and think of Ferelden. Promise you'll give me a chance, Anora. Please."
She was too surprised to do anything but nod.
The next months had passed in a blur, momentous events chasing each other in an almost uninterrupted sequence.
First, the Landsmeet, when Percival had won the nobles over in an impressive show of strength and cunning. But more than that, he had honoured his promise to his future Queen and spared Loghain's life, even though it had cost him Alistair's support. Anora had sworn she wouldn't forget that.
Then, the Battle of Denerim, when she had addressed her troops, giving them new courage, and Percival had taken down the Archdemon with a mighty blow of his sword. Their losses had been daunting, but they had done it. They had stopped the Blight and beaten back the Darkspawn.
And finally, the victory celebrations, culminating in her coronation. Her people had celebrated her with enthusiastic acclamations of joy and support, their excitement reaching a fever pitch when she had announced her intention to marry Percival.
The Hero of Ferelden and the victorious Queen. A perfect match.
So, this is it. Our wedding night. Percival was nervous, more than he would ever have admitted.
For as long as he could remember, he'd worshipped Anora. He vividly recalled the day when Cailan had presented his beautiful young queen to the court, proud and hopeful. She had been so lovely, with her long flaxen hair and her delicate features, so young, so sweet, so perfect.
She had changed since then. Her features had become sharper, harder, more determined, but she was still beautiful. He respected and admired her more than ever, knowing what she had achieved in the years since Cailan's death, how she had held up in the face of all the adversity. But he was acutely aware that she was his wife now. No idol to be put on a pedestal, but a living, breathing woman. A woman who would share his bed, who would bear his children, with any luck.
They had spent as much time as possible together in the weeks leading up to the wedding, discussing politics and strategy, trying to get to know each other better. She had cried out with delight when she'd found that he had read some of her favourite authors on statecraft. He had been impressed by her skill with a bow, when she had joined him at the archery range for morning practice. Percival sighed. Yes, they had become friendly enough.
This, however, was different. When the servants finally left them alone, Anora turned to him, her face just as apprehensive as his. She was wearing a fine, lacy white nightgown, and her hair had been unbraided and carefully brushed. She looked different this way, young and vulnerable, and beautiful.
For a moment they just stared at each other, her clear blue eyes taking in his body, clad only in a thin linen shirt and matching pants. Then she smiled, a small, hesitant smile, and walked over to him, standing on tiptoes to brush her lips against his. It was a feather light touch and it made him tremble. Very carefully, he cupped her head with his hand, drawing her closer and kissing her back, firmly but chastely.
"We don't have to do this tonight. If you don't want to, I mean." Percival had meant his words to sound confident and relaxed, but he realized he sounded nervous instead.
Anora smiled again. "Oh, but I want to." She laughed at his startled expression. "What is it? You know I'm not a blushing virgin, don't you?"
When she kissed him again, it was far from chaste, and Percival couldn't hold back a low groan, couldn't resist pulling her closer, molding her body to his. She responded with a soft sigh, tangling her fingers in his hair and arching up into his touch. They took their time kissing, exploring, tasting each other, and when he finally let go of her, she was breathless and flushed, and he was trembling with want.
Taking his hand, Anora led him over to the bed that had been lovingly prepared for them, decked out in pristine white linens that smelled of lavender. It was a huge four-poster, made from heavy oak with carvings of deer and mabari hounds. Not precisely romantic, but he quickly forgot about that as she lay down on the sheets and pulled him on top of her. Eagerly his hands wandered over her body, tracing her curves through the thin nightgown, slipping under the seam and trying to push it up. He hesitated, looking searchingly at Anora's face. She had tensed under his touch, a little of her initial reserve back in place, and he cursed inwardly. This wouldn't do.
"What do you want me to do?" He took her hand. "Tell me."
She smiled. "Kiss me again. Like you did before."
He did, and again her whole body responded, and he could feel her, pressed along his torso, soft and yielding, but this time she took his hand and moved it down to her breasts, moaning when he brushed against a nipple. It took all his patience to hold back, but he waited until she moved his hands to the lacings of her gown. Only then did he untie them, sliding the flimsy garment down over her shoulders, baring her to his gaze. Her skin was soft and creamy white, and he couldn't resist any longer, couldn't keep himself from kissing her, nuzzling her long, graceful neck, then moving deeper until his lips finally found her breasts.
Anora didn't remain passive. While he was caressing her, her hands were busy unlacing his shirt, then his pants, wrapping her long graceful fingers around him, making him gasp. When he pulled her close again, they both moaned at the feel of skin on skin, heated and oversensitive.
It progressed very easily from there, a slow but steady build-up of passion until she opened up for him, spreading her long legs wide. When he entered her, her lips parted in a deep sigh, but her eyes were firmly shut. He bit his lip.
"Anora. Don't close your eyes. Please. Look at me." He needed her to be here, with him, needed to be sure her mind wasn't elsewhere.
When she did as he asked, all doubts were gone. Her expression was tender, her gaze cloudy with arousal. Percival held her firmly until she relaxed, flushed and content. She remained in his arms afterwards, until he fell asleep, a satisfied smile on his face. He felt confident and optimistic. They were a good match. Life at her side would suit him fine.
Many thanks to ShebasDawn for her edits. I'm very grateful to have her help with this.
And thanks to spectre4hire for giving me the idea for this story, and to suilven who edited the rewritten bits.